Monday, 30 April 1883

Vernissage. I dress in black with a grey hat. My aunt and Alice with me; the whole morning passes with the Canroberts, M. de la Tour, Bojidar and Sautereau, whom we get in at nine o'clock. Lunch with the Gaillards, and Bojidar who will not leave us.
And during lunch an imposing procession passes… Jules. The great, the only, the true, the unique. With his brother and Stéphanie and another woman. This vexes me greatly. I have been looking for him all morning, and now there is no possibility of having him to myself in the afternoon.
At last we encounter them again, and Emile comes over to us — I pretend not to notice the other one with his Anastasie. In the end it is childishness. As for Bojidar and Alice, they are overcome at speaking to this great man. Few people know how to inflame people as I do — I set them alight. You understand: this serves me as a screen; I am not alone. A hundred encounters with friends. Emile says his brother is very pleased with my painting. That the only weak point is the background — the wall not sufficiently indicated — but that the idea, the feeling, the tone, the drawing, all of it is an artist's, and that he is very pleased.
I do not want to hear it from him — it had to be the true, the only, the unique himself who repeated it to me. For as soon as those vile women release him, Emile rushes over and brings him to us — we are overwhelmed.
We walk together, and every time that friends of his or ours come and throw themselves across our path, I am in
…a mad anguish that he will escape me. At last we go and sit at the buffet and take a little champagne. I between the two brothers, Breslau at a table beside us. Jules does not like his hanging at the Salon. I adore it when he tells me that my work is good — he is sincere, independent, fair. No parti pris, no school, no obstinacy.
I have the happiness of talking with him. Oh — I am enjoying myself, strolling with him, and whenever the other one, the false one, the architect went off to speak to someone, I would send Alexis or Bojidar to fetch him back. And yet — who had Breslau's company? Breslau. And the honest architect considers this unkind: "You have so many advantages over her." Well, I do not think so. Wolff devoted a few lines to her — to me, nothing. Besides, it is truly no great feat to steal the false Bastien from her. The true one has not spoken to her. So I have had the happiness of talking with him.
He explained his Ophelia to me. Good Lord — this is not an artist of ordinary talent. He understands it in an absolutely inspired way. What he said about it is humble in the most intimate depths of the soul. It is truly beautiful to understand art thus, to feel as he feels. He does not see her simply as a mad woman — she is a misérable d'amour, the immense disenchantment, the bitterness, the despair, the end of everything — love's wretch, with a streak of madness. She is the most touching figure, the most sorrowful, the most desperate…
I am wild about it. Genius is beautiful.
This ugly little man appears more beautiful and more magnetic than an angel. One wants to spend one's life listening to him and following him through his sublime work. Above all he speaks so simply. He replied to something or other someone was saying — "I find so much poetry in nature" — with an accent of such frank sincerity that I remain wholly wrapped in an inexpressible charm.
I exaggerate — I feel that I exaggerate.
And yet — there is something to it.
So we leave together, and before leaving there is a fine moment when we find ourselves — Carolus, Tony, Jules, Emile Carrier-Belleuse, Edelfelt, and the great, the only, the true, the other — Saint-Marceaux at last. I perform before Jules in adoring this bald sculptor. It is a quarter-hour of triumph.
And the Salon? Well — I shall speak to you tomorrow.
It is six o'clock in the morning — having walked from nine to six in the evening we went to the Gavinis', then dined at home. Alexis, Bojidar, Dusautoy, Saint-Amand. And then a fancy-dress ball at the Faleyeffs', where we amuse ourselves — not by dancing with a
…crowd of strangers but by talking in the small drawing-room. Bojidar, Dina, Alexis, Dusautoy, Emile, Rochefort (the younger).
[Written across the page: Before the ball we call in on the Gavinis to be admired — we are masked; Dina as a little mousmé, Emile Bastien as a very handsome brigand, Bojidar as an apothecary's boy, and I as Récamier… Stunning and pretty.] In any case, I must be kind to Emile — he was so kind at the vernissage. Thanks to him I had the other one to myself for an hour and a half. I keep wanting him to tell me whether he "looks favourably upon his brother's outpourings." He is afraid to answer, and in the end this leads to a whole conversation in which I speak of my feelings — pure, sympathetic, simple. For if it were not like that, I would never dare; it would be too delicate a matter.
He explains to me that "what I mean to speak of" is nothing that ought to… and that he can say nothing, and that every man… and that in short what do I want to know — "whether the situation in which his brother currently finds himself seems to me…" And that young ladies should not, and that in short does it not vex me myself? And I reply.
— But yes, it vexes me a great deal; since it is a feeling one can own to — disinterested, simple — I say it quite plainly.
— Well then, you must know perfectly well what I think of it… So why ask?
— Ah — you do not look favourably on it!… I knew as much!
— But I am saying nothing.
— I put forward Bojidar's feelings to justify my own.
In any case we went back into the drawing-room utterly beside ourselves. And at dinner it was nothing but:
— He is young!
— He is handsome!
— He has talent!
— Genius!
— There is no one else!
— Oh — yes!
— He is young.
— He is handsome, etc. etc. etc.
And yesterday morning — which I had forgotten. It was delightful. Fine society this time: seventy people in all. The Maréchale Canrobert and her daughter, the Vicomtesse de Janzé, Mme and Mlle de Ramand, Gavini; Russians and others — I shall have the complete list.
Men as well. And Judic sang. She is the most refined actress in Paris.
She made us all weep, there in the middle of the drawing-room. She is as poetic as Bastien, and I cannot understand why she is made to perform that vulgar repertoire.
My little note had brought Emile, who had not been expected. I had written: "Everyone thinks I was not kind. But you must not take as a slight against you a little girl's pique, provoked by a third party."
I have been over-indulged — in all, three charming madwomen were disappointed last evening. As for me, thank God, that is over: for I know that in five or six years he will have become a member of the Institut and I shall be in full bloom. Please convey to this future academician this invitation, which he will do nothing with — too bad, for us. He is perfectly right, after all, not to go and expend himself in salons, and from this moment I consider him sufficiently invited to turn up on his own without any supplication.
What is frightening is that I suspect this vile architect of not sharing all these emotions with his great brother — that would be abominable! He told me on Sunday that his Jules knows nothing of all these feelings. What, wretch — he knows nothing!
Ah — really it is not worth the trouble… Life is absurd. I was saying so again this evening. And I mean it.
If the true one loved me as the false one does, I would be wildly happy.

Notes

Misérable d'amour: roughly, "a wretch destroyed by love" — Jules Bastien-Lepage's own phrase for his Ophelia, as reported by Marie.
Mousmé: a Japanese girl; a fashionable Japoniste costume, popularised by Pierre Loti's 1887 novel Madame Chrysanthème (though the type was already in Parisian vogue earlier through Japonisme).
En Récamier: dressed as Julie Récamier (1777–1849), the celebrated beauty and salonnière, whose portrait by David shows her in a white Empire-style gown reclining on a chaise longue — an iconic elegant costume.
Membre de l'Institut: a member of the Institut de France, the highest honour in French intellectual life, comprising the Académie française and four other academies. An "immortal" in the cultural establishment.